The artist’s paintbrush, his dazzling katana, flourished in a vibrant display of coalescing colors. They dyed the very air, leaving swirling blade-cuts between hues of pink and mercury.

  Targeted first were the former prisoners of Ironside, both attempting to dodge and weave through the interlacing, severing strokes. But they could not avoid them entirely; the cuts still pierced through their evasions, nicking small openings between their armor where flesh barely met the eye.

  A myriad of slashes cleaved through their defenses, painting the grassy plain with scattered sanguine droplets. “I have to say… I am a tad disappointed. They said you’d be trouble, but it seems even the First Brushstroke is enough to overwhelm and disorient even war veterans.” His tone was emotionless, though a mocking smirk could barely be seen on the swordsman’s face as he blinked from one end of the field to the other in a matter of seconds.

  “Bastard…” the Witch of Warmth groaned, spite between her teeth. She finally realized just how serious the fight was, and in turn, began to generate immense heat at the ends of her fingertips in preparation.

  Yuki spun on his foot, blades of grass flaking off into the sundered, blowing wind, and locked eyes with Ma’at. He had chosen his prime target, the first to be disposed of by the Unmeikatana.

  The Sirithisian could scarcely react in time. Even if she managed to bring her standard-issue shortswords up to block it, there was a high chance the enemy’s blade would simply cut right through them like butter along with their wielder. However, noticing a burning orb approaching her, she decided not to take the gamble and jumped out of harm’s way instead.

  The swordsman darted toward her all the same, even after she jumped back, and entered a running stance meant for decapitating one’s foes in one swift swing. “Foolish… utterly foolish. Goodbye, stranger.”

  However, before his blade’s edge could meet the dark-skinned woman’s throat, a blast of searing flame hotter than burning oil erupted into existence between them, and he was forced to flee lest his face be scarred beyond recognition. He had raised the sleeve of his robe instinctually to guard against it. It seemed, like most formal wear worn by those who were skilled beyond measure, that the fabric wrapped around his body was weaved with Spiral Lining. It could withstand even the hottest of temperatures, let alone attacks several times stronger than the witch’s fireball.

  “Feeling confident?” Camelia taunted, a swarm of wisps swirling around her flaming hand. “Parry this, asshole. Match my wrath.” Flicking her fingers, a dozen wisps flew toward the swordsman at different intervals. Even with his speed, it was too much to guard against nor flee from. Each careened into his path, igniting the earth around him and blasting against his raised robe over and over again. Each blast kept him centered, long enough for her to unleash yet another searing fireball straight at him.

  Raising his scabbard aloft, the swordsman centered his body, honed into a perfected technique that he aimed to counter with. “Second Brushstroke: Myriad Reflections on a Moonlit Sea.” He unsheathed the blade slowly, creating a sound not unlike a banshee’s shriek, then spun and slashed in a perfect circle just as the fireball made contact. Reality itself seemed to crack around him, and like a shattered mirror, Camelia’s magic was broken up into thousands if not millions of fragments before time moved again. The great fireball she had conjured had been reduced to fragmentary reflections, its great power diminished and reduced to no more than a myriad of tiny flames that did nothing but lick at the swordsman’s white, iron robe. Opening his eyes after the smoke and flames dissipated, he met Camelia’s fiery glare with the same serenity he had shown them minutes before. “It would seem I did manage to parry that. My Way will not be tainted by a demoness’s flames. Wrath is better diverted than met in equal measure; such were the words of my former mentor.”

  The witch in red grinded her teeth in frustration yet again.

  “...I do have to commend you, however. You forced me to use another technique. Very few have seen the Second Brushstroke.”

  “You think that’s all I’ve got? There’s plenty more where that came from.” Camelia, of course, was half-bluffing. She had put a boatload of magical energy into what should have been a fireball to scorch Yuki down to his bones. Yet, he had deflected it with as much effort as he would swatting a fly. She had underestimated him again. The good news, though, was that the swordsman had vastly underestimated them as well. He could never hope to guess that one of them wielded a tamed demon, and another was a magus on par with her own skill and power.

  Naturally, she had left Ma’at out of the equation. Even with the Swordstress’s expertise in swordplay, it was obvious that Yuki was superior in that regard. True, their swordplay itself was fundamentally different, but even so, the swordsman seemed to have trained since birth. Not only that, but without Ma’at’s advantage via her levitating blades, and against Yuki’s Unmeikatana, there was no contest. The best the Sirithisian could do in such a life or death scenario was avoid what would almost certainly kill her, and to attack only when she was absolutely sure he was distracted.

  “Yuki,” Sato directed his attention to herself. “Why are you doing this? We didn’t want to fight you.”

  He sighed, light breath escaping his nostrils, honing his form even more. “I am a blade, Maiden. To allow your Union overlords to steal my weapon is akin to stealing my very soul. I thought it plainly obvious where I stand.”

  “Then allow us to recruit you,” Tien reasoned. “We need the blade just as much as the wielder. But we must take the levinshards back. That is also our mission.”

  “I would rather commit seppuku than ever work with your kind again,” Yuki replied flatly. “...Yes, it would appear that way. Even after I have attained my freedom, the red thread of fate seeks to drag me down to hell for the last time. It is a stain I cannot wash clean… a blemish that mocks me whenever I look in the mirror.” The swordsman spoke to no one in particular, at least to no one in sight.

  “Yuki… why did you take the levinshards? What do you need them for?” Sato questioned him, empathy clear in her voice.

  “What do I need them for?” He chuckled in spite of himself. “I don’t need them at all. A warrior has no need for anything but his sword and a tether to keep him bound.”

  “Then… why? Give them back, and we’ll leave. It’s as simple as that!” Sato pleaded. Her starry eyes enraptured him for but a moment, then he sunk back into his odd, melancholic mood.

  “No, it isn’t. Nothing in this world is so simple.” Just as it seemed the swordsman had calmed down, he faced the Maiden fully and launched in her direction quicker than a rabbit running from a frenzied wolf.

  Steel clashed with steel. Silvery petals plumed and mixed with splashing rainwater in a spring-inspired dance. The duelists bounced off one another over and over until they were clashing around trees on the rim of the clearing.

  Sato opened her umbrella just in time to deflect a lightning-fast slash, then sent a wave of water toward her attacker and ran back out onto the plain.

  Shing!

  In but one single horizontal strike, a slash very similar to the technique he had used to counter Camelia’s fire, he cut the tree the Maiden had just passed perfectly at its roots and fell it faster than any lumberjack could ever dream to replicate. The tree cracked and splintered where it had suffered its lethal wound, then began to drop like a toppling building. Its shadow eclipsed the fleeing woman before she could hope to dash off to the side.

  As it fell over her, as the giant threatened to smash her into tattered tarpaulin and pulverized viscera, a stream of cobalt rimefrost jettisoned past and froze the rolling wave just as it smashed into the tree’s trunk. The water, the swordsman standing in it, and the falling tree all froze in a flash of icy blue. Gravity surely tugged at the verdant ice sculpture, cracks formed in it shortly after Lomm had casted the spell, but it would be long after the Maiden had escaped before it would be released.

  Sato heaved a great sigh of relief. She breathlessly thanked the little ice mage before darting out from the tree’s path.

  “N-No problem! That should hold him for-”

  A deafening sound like shattering glass rang out from behind the frozen trunk, and soon after, Yuki emerged from the shaded woods as if nothing had happened.

  “The hell…? Nothing phases you, does it?”

  He barely regarded the witch even at her obvious taunt; his gaze was firmly focused on the Maiden of the Rain, calm as the surface of a lake. “You are quite the thorn in my side. The witch’s party tricks were annoying, but your power is nothing quite so limited. …Mhm. It would seem the girl is more in tune with her soul’s melody than any of them. Your tears have been a beautiful sight to behold, much more captivating than mere fireworks.”

  “...Thank you, I guess.”

  “Party tricks!? I’ll show you a party trick, you cocky motherf-”

  “No, Camelia. If he wants to fight me, then so be it.” Sato rotated her umbrella in her hand slowly, gathering precipitation coating it in a layer of cold liquid.

  The shadow that hung from Yuki’s shoulders was still plainly visible to her, though its form was cloudy and ephemeral. The faint body of a woman lingered there in the void, dark lips whispering in his ear as he entered a new stance: Iaido, a technique taught in Nima for unleashing an upward slash from a sheathed, neutral state.

  “Ah,” she chimed. “A Veil. You turned her into a Veil somehow, didn’t you?”

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  “A Veil? Who?” Tien muttered, confused.

  He did not answer. Instead, he carefully and methodically took steps toward Sato, closing the distance so as to end their battle in one masterful stroke.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you. But, I’ll have to offend you one more time. I’m not an artist or a swordsman, so you’ll have to forgive me.”

  Yuki halted, awaiting his opponent’s next move. Though he wanted to push the offensive as he had the whole time, he knew that reacting would be the best course of action at the moment. He had no idea what the Maiden had up her sleeve.

  “Tien!” Sato yelled.

  “Right. Marchosias!” The tinkerer dropped her suitcase with a practiced hand and kicked it open. Out from the infinite abyss, the unspeakable returned. The caged demon was allowed freedom for a split second. Its ravenous tendrils and maw extended across the field, groping and undulating in anticipation, until finally it drew near the ronin and attempted to grasp him. Its dozens of mangled eyes warped by madness were all directed at its next meal to be.

  But the swordsman did not flinch; he did not even look at the crazed thing. He barely regarded its presence, just as he had done with Camelia a moment ago.

  Sato knew what she had to do. She had to act now and force his hand, thereby leaving him vulnerable to Tien’s captive weapon. It was their first solid chance of defeating him. She had to take the gamble. Taking a solid step forward, she let loose a rain-drenched slash heavy with the stars of that fateful night long ago; they shone for her on her deathbed then, and they still did during this mortal strike.

  At first, Yuki remained static. An immaculate bust of a deeply focused ronin seemed to materialize in the middle of the field. However, as Marchosias’s tendrils and mandibles entered his range, he broke his statuesque form at last and unleashed his upward slash true to the Iaido style. To do so, he had left an opening for the Maiden to strike him down. A fatal error for a master swordsman to make, but a student outnumbered five to one is likely no different than a master in the same position. The odds were simply not in his favor. The gods were not on his side today. He had accepted that from his first sight upon waking: the eerie sky heralding an anxious omen. Umbra had cemented his fears, whispering the very same thought right after pondering it himself.

  The demon recoiled from the heavenly cut, viscous bile erupting from its vertical wound.

  And Sato’s memory-infused attack… barely connected with the swordsman’s elaborate clothing. She had struck him, but not with nearly as much power as she had thought. What happened? What went wrong? Her mind raced, but soon enough white-hot pain replaced her whirling ruminations. A gash tore into the left side of her chest and she fell backward onto the dirt with a hard thud. Rainwater pooled where her umbrella lay fallen beside her, along with a stream of blood that was cast from the phantom counterstrike.

  “Sato!” Ma’at cried.

  “No! No! Marchosias…!” The demon fled back from whence it came, its rolling limbs cracking and breaking as it hurried back into its prison. Tien’s suitcase slammed shut, and the aberration was gone without a trace.

  The rest were in shock.

  Yuki flicked the foul blood off his katana, then sheathed it in one fluid motion and stared down at Sato with a quizzical expression. “A Veil, you said? I did hear that term some years ago. It’s all the same to me. …On second thought, perhaps it was I who couldn’t accept her departure from this mortal realm. Who can say? But I can safely say that she has saved my life yet again.” The hazy image of the man’s betrothed wavered in the sunlight. Falling leaves twirled around the shadow and fell around the downed Maiden. “...Umbra, now is not the time for pity. They’ll be here any minute now. I must deliver the levinshards in one piece. Only their defeat can ensure that.”

  Sato groaned, made to grab at her wound, then stopped. Better to leave it, she thought.

  “...Hmm.” Yuki let out another tired sigh, clearly full of mixed opinions. “I see. If that is what you wish, then how can I argue? I can only hope their intentions vary.”

  It was her, Sato realized. For a brief second, before her charged attack had cleaved the man in half, an onyx blade seemed to lash out from the same space his lover presided and barely managed to slice through her raincoat. She has a blade, too. I’ve technically been fighting two people at once and I didn’t even notice. Heh. Sorry, Mother. I should’ve been more perceptive.

  Ma’at’s fury was self-evident. Seeing her lifelong friend so gripped with hatred, Camelia couldn’t help but feel it too. They looked at each other, nodded, then charged forward with sword and flame.

  “I loathe to lower myself to such a dishonorable state, but the Maiden has already tarnished what would have otherwise been a truly artistic duel to the death. Allow me, then, to do the same. I must put this to an end, for their arrival is soon.” The spring wind seemed to tremble with each syllable he spoke, and following his initial remark, a dense, impenetrable force seemed to stop Ma’at and Camelia’s blitz. He entered a stance similar to the one he had entered to deliver his First Brushstroke, though it differed too in one key area: his eyes were closed, and a blinding silver and rose light shone from the sliver of blade that could be seen between the sheath and the hilt. As he spoke his next sentence, that light darkened into the darkest blue; darker than a night sky full of stars, darker than the void his bride was enveloped in. It was the unbending, pure azure color of destiny itself made manifest. “May the heavens forgive my pride, may my blade have mercy. Third Brushstroke: Blueshift Clusterslash.”

  …Shing…!

  And the heavens cried.

  There was nothing that could have prepared them for the sheer might of Yuki’s relic. Unmeikatana. The Blade of Destiny. Many years past, the legendary sword had chosen a young boy banished and exiled, tossed into the Dark. The Abyss. Yes, the blade had chosen him and him only. A good few had found the item, but none could wield it. None but him. A relic on par with those used in the great war of the west. They had asked him to participate, of course, but Nima was his home. He would not fight some pointless war for nations and cities he had no allegiance to. All a warrior needs is a blade to call his own, and a tether to bind him. That is the Way of the Wise.

  Electromagnetic thermogenesis left his heart and soul, poured into the ancient blade, and let him loose upon his five foes like a thunderstorm annihilating countryside homes with indiscriminate fury. Searing blue curves, azure lines with silver accents swathed and bent in spherical dimensions. Cobalt clusters of levin and steel came into being across the sunlit field and cut into the Vroque crew and Lomm. It was unclear just how injured they were, only that they seemed to faint and fall to the ground as if struck dead. Deep holes were dug by the deep blue clusters, and the grass around them was sheared and burnt to a crisp. Thin, razor-sharp grooves cut into the plain easily. The sword could cut all. None were safe from its edge. Ultimately, the storm ravaged the clearing, and Yuki’s foes each suffered innumerable cuts and wounds. They were defeated in a single microcosmic instant. None were spared injury. None.

  Blam!

  A violent, alien noise tainted the aftermath of Yuki’s artistry. A gunshot.

  The swordsman turned to gaze upon its source, a bullet hole burrowed into his shoulder.

  “Heheh. Sorry, pal. Orders are orders.”

  A nauseatingly familiar voice woke Ma’at from her slumber and tugged at her eyelids. Searing cuts etched into every part of her body filled her with immense pain.

  “That you, Ma’at? Long time, no see!” A gruff, bearded man with beady eyes and a square jaw stood before them. The rifleman had waited for the perfect opportunity to strike. He sighed bitterly. “Seems like we just can’t meet on good terms, eh? Shame, really.”

  Yuki turned his attention to two others standing by him who had yet to speak. One was a Sirithisian woman with woeful features, and the other a shirtless, pale humanoid with Technicist implants incised into his skull and spine. Colorful, reflective liquid bubbled up and down his back.

  “You…” the dreadful lady intoned. “Don’t move a muscle, or Cloak here will decorate this blasted field with your brains.” She wore black cloth garments and on her right hand was a wicked gauntlet that resembled a warbeast’s claw. However, Yuki was drawn more and more to the woman’s mangled appearance. Her face was nearly entirely burnt off. Though she covered it with a dark hood, his eyesight was nothing if not extraordinary. Her ghoulish, skeletal face was easy to see from his position.

  “That’s right,” Cloak said. “You may be fast, but I’m faster. And don’t even think about deflecting. These bullets are top of the line.”

  “What manner of treachery is this?” Yuki questioned them, exasperated. “I have procured the levinshards. Here.” He reached into the inner folds of his robe and revealed a handful of jagged shards crackling with primordial energy.

  “No sudden movements, now. Just toss ‘em over.” A dry chuckle escaped the rifleman’s throat. He made sure his sights were firmly trained on the man, that no error could allow the swordsman to lunge forward and cut them down.

  Yuki reluctantly followed Cloak’s directions.

  “Good,” the sinister woman said, smirking. She bent down and picked up the ore, feeling their weight in her hands. “With the right materials, Voira is a miracle-worker. I shudder to think what she can accomplish now with these.”

  Another dreadfully familiar voice dragged Ma’at back up from oblivion. It was a miracle in and of itself that she was even conscious. When she had been cut down by Yuki’s grand swordplay, the last thing she remembered was that the swords given to her by Fulgur had been obliterated beyond repair… and a strange sensation had gripped her. A voice like sweet wine filled her being with healing, protective light. It was Millarca’s voice. Whether it had saved her life or not, she had no clue. But it was the driving force allowing her to wake and raise her head. What she saw when she did was nowhere near as comforting. The same wretched girl who had abused her the day she had met Camelia stood before her now.

  “Hmph.”

  “Isfet…?”

  “...I still hate that look in your eyes. Don’t you dare look down on me from there, traitor.”

  “The Nye Inkorpt…” Ma’at murmured. She tried to stand, even tear her face from the ground, but could not move an inch.

  Isfet turned away from the downed Swordstress. “Now… the blade.”

  Yuki could not believe his ears. He stood in silence, the gaping hole in his shoulder oozing blood.

  “The blade, idiot. Hand it over.”

  “...That is not possible.”

  “Sure it is. If you won’t, then I’ll just have to disembowel you and take it for myself.”

  “You do not have the aptitude to wield it, Sirithisian. Without it, my blade is no better than a backscratcher to you and your minions.”

  “I. Don’t. Care. You completed our request, so we have it on good authority to spare your life. But if you won’t give us the blade, I’m afraid we won’t be so kind.”

  Yuki sighed, peering up at the uncaring, clear blue sky. The sky did not care about him. It did not care about what had happened this day, or what would happen the next. It simply was. And it continued to be. “...You foresaw this too, didn’t you Umbra? Is that why…?” He closed his eyes, pondered, then reopened them and nodded solemnly. “Alright. Take it.”

  “Toss it, like before.”

  He did so. Isfet caught it by the sheath in her claw-hand. A metallic chime let out as she did.

  “Sayonara, old friend. Soon… we shall meet again.”

  Isfet cackled, taken by a strange euphoria. “Not likely. …Let’s go.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Cloak loosened his aim and walked backwards into the forest with Isfet and the creature until they disappeared amongst the verdant expanse, all the while keeping a firm watch on the swordsman.

  The artist’s paintbrush, his dazzling katana, was stolen from his hands by the same devils that had made him a thief. Nothing but desolation remained of his prideful art, and those he had seen as enemies now seemed the more adamant of allies.